


Summer Twilight

by FebobeFic_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29332497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FebobeFic_Archivist/pseuds/FebobeFic_Archivist
Summary: On the night before the departing members of the Fellowship and their company leave Minas Tirith, Arwen and Frodo share serious conversation in the library.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

"You could stay, you know."

Arwen's voice was soft behind me, sweet as ripe strawberries like the ones we'd had that afternoon for tea. She and Aragorn were sufficiently familiar with our customs now to offer seven meals a day, liberally interspersed with plenty of snacks, to "their periannath," as I had once heard us called by a rather awed but confused serving-lass. The others delighted in it.

I had not the appetite.

Not yet, at least.

At least. . .I hoped that was it, though a part of me suspected otherwise.

"I know. Thank you."

"I brought something for you. Come and sit with me for a little; the others will not finish for many hours."

It was true: everyone was downstairs, drinking and talking, and likely would remain there until the early morning hours. We had finished our packing: all that remained was the leave-taking and our morning departure. For this reason, I was surprised to hear Arwen's voice: I had thought that she would be with Elrond. They would not see one another again, and my heart felt a stab at the thought, as if it had been my doing.

Had it not, in a way?

Unable to refuse her, I turned, following her dutifully to the large windowseat, abandoning the smallest window of the library, where she had found me. She set a tray between us, gesturing gently for me to inspect the dishes and begin as she curled her feet beneath the full skirts, a habit of hers to which I was well accustomed by now.

Vegetable soup. . .miniature mushroom turnovers, one of which would have filled my entire hand. . .cherries in a dish. . .applesauce with blueberries dotting the surface. . .blackberry cake drizzled with caramel icing. . .a glass of my favourite white one. . .a tumblerful of cool water. . .and a tiny glass of some scented, bright-coloured drink. The last looked almost medicinal, and she must have caught my skeptical gaze.

"Strawberry cordial. The last summer strawberries of Imladris. I have packed the rest for you, but thought perhaps it would be fitting for you to have a taste now."

Another result of my actions. . .no, inactions, rather. "Thank you, Hiril. . .you are too kind."

She smiled, hair falling into her face. She was wearing it down tonight, as I had often seen here there, leaving it unbound as she never did here. "Haldir gave my grandmother some of their blueberry cordial, also from last summer. He wished it to come to you as well, so that you might remember Lorien in happier moments. I have packed that; you may prefer it over plain white cake. That is how I grew up eating it, at least."

Despite the merriment in her eyes, I feel cold and close to despair, my throat tight. Dropping my gaze, I nod. "I would remember Lorien always even without it. . .but I will try that. It was very kind of him to send it, and of Galadriel to bring it. . . ."

"Ringbearer - "

I looked up abruptly. So rarely had she called me that. . .many did, but Arwen used it only sparingly, usually calling me Frodo instead.

"I do not wish to grieve you, and yet I do so. . .just as I do not wish to grieve my parents. Yet I do, and I will." She put out her arms to me, and I scooted around the edge of the tray, careful not to upset it, allowing her to cradle me against her, curling us into a comfortable fluff of silken finery and dark hair in the window-seat. "You did not wish to grieve us. I know that, as do Father, and Grandmother, and Grandfather. . .a great darkness has passed from this world, and for that good we are happy, though we wish that evil did not have to come of it."

She took my maimed hand in hers, kissing it lightly.

"But such is the way of things. The happiest events are often bittersweet. There is a loss that we regret even above the fading beauty of the elvenhomes."

I nodded, swallowing numbly as I settled against her.

"You are frightened."

"Yes." I had not dared admit it before the others, but much as I longed to return home, I dreaded the arrival. Bag End I had sold, and though I could live out my life at Crickhollow in peace, perhaps, I had felt strangely relieved when Arwen had placed her white gem about my neck, reassuring me that I might go to the Havens, when the time came, should I wish.

Already I wished.

She settled back, taking the cup of soup in one hand and offering it to me, grey eyes so coaxing that I could not refuse her.

"When Mother was wounded, I hardly saw her. Father was shut in her rooms for hours at first, treating her. I only saw her once she was asleep, so pale and quiet I could hardly believe it was her. Yet when she woke. . .she was hardly different."

Arwen's voice remained calm, but I sensed a small hint of effort in the steady smoothness.

"She walked the halls like some ghost. . .a shadow of herself. The others who had been in her party, who had been scattered, were recovering from their own injuries, and could laugh and talk, celebrating her return. Never did she refuse when they toasted her, and sang of her courage: she sat always beside Father, smiling appreciatively. But the smile was hollow. . .empty, like the husks of plants bitten too sharply by the frost to bear fruit again.

"Father tried to heal her spirit, but. . .there was never any change. She would not consider sailing West. . .her children were not married, and she wished to see that, she reminded us. . .but it grew worse and worse. Upon the anniversary of her capture and wounding, she fell into such pain that not even Father could soothe her, and it was that day the decision was sealed."

She grew silent, and I continued taking slow sips of the warm soup as her hand brushed mine, pressing me without words to drink and eat.

"Yours is as well, Frodo. . .for I have seen it."

I nearly choked on a mouthful of soup, looking up at her. With her news coming so recently, I should have been surprised. . .and yet somehow I felt no shock. "How?"

A sorrowful smile played at the corners of her lips, and she settled me more comfortably against her. "When you came to Imladris, as soon as you were up and about. . .I saw traces even then of the emptiness that haunted Mother's smile, the weariness in her gaze. When we arrived here, I found myself faced with what I had never thought possible: an empty sorrow deeper than what I saw then, though perhaps better concealed to most. Until then, I had felt uncertain.

Her hand slid over mine.

"When Mother sailed West, I chose to return with Grandmother to Lothlorien. My heart was broken, as was my father's. . .but he had my brothers, and they shared a like grief, as different from mine as the dawn is to the night sky. Galadriel shared my pain in ways I could not ask of them. . .and perhaps it was because of this that she offered me the opportunity to look into her mirror.

"What I saw there I will not say in full. . .many things, not all of which would interest you. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of Mother, though my grandmother warned that the Mirror's power would not likely extend to the Undying Lands. Yet it *did*. . .as we discovered when we saw Mother, laughing and happy and whole, her eyes alight. . .full, no longer hollow with pain."

Suddenly Arwen's smile softened and brightened, and she lowered her voice.

"She was waiting somewhere. . .at a dock, as if preparing for a ship to arrive. . .and I saw her face light up as Father came to her. How she laughed! It was like the sound of bells, merry as summer, sweeter than wine. . .but then. . .she turned, and he released her, as if to greet another. . .and there I saw someone no taller than I was as a child, someone pale and slight, with hollow eyes darkened by great grief. I would have taken him for an elven scholar or warrior of my father's household, one who had lived since the earliest days, and had seen the great darkness. . .had he not been so much shorter, with bare feet covered by dark curls like those upon his head. My mother came to greet him, and knelt to speak at his height. . .she embraced him tightly, and held him in her arms."

"I told no one of this. Not even my grandmother."

She sighed, sliding one hand up to rest gingerly upon my left shoulder, warmth soothing the nearly constant ache.

"My mother will love you dearly, Frodo. . .as one of her own children. She would have taken great pains to see to your care, as would I now, such as I can. But she needed healing, and peace. . .and those she now has. The choice falls to you, but my heart foresees that you will sail West when the time comes. . .and you shall find healing there."

Her voice warmed.

"And my mother will be so delighted to meet you. . .you will see her as she was before she was wounded, and you will not lack for care or comfort."

Silence fell between us. I eased the mug - long abandoned - onto the tray, and Arwen made no move to stop me. At last she gathered me into her lap, rocking me for a while before reaching for a spoon, nodding in question toward the tray as she tried to interest me in eating. I did not struggle. She stirred the applesauce and blueberries, allowing me to take the spoon from her hand and venture small mouthfuls.

"If you wish, you may remain in Minas Tirith, or return here after visiting Rivendell. Estel and I would ensure your safe passage to the Havens when it is time. . .we would pass through your beloved Shire, and you might see it again then. . .as well as your companions. But you gave up your home and your heart's desires for the sake of others, and I would not attempt to dissuade you from what you wish. Though my father will grieve, he will be with my mother again. . .and I will be with Estel. Wherever you wish the end of your road to find you, there you may go, with all the blessings that we can bestow."

I nodded, taking a sip of wine before speaking.

It was chilled and crisp, exactly the way I had always liked it most.

"The others. . .do not understand."

"They will not. None of us could understand, and that hurt Mother all the more. In the end, she had to do what her heart told her. It did not mean she loved us less. . .or that she had failed in any way. . .or that we had failed her. It simply *was*. . .as things are, sometimes."

"Yes." Nodding, I took another sip, looking up at her. "It seems. . .that is how it will be with me. . .somehow I feel I must return. From there. . . ." My voice trailed off; I could not continue for the tightness in my throat.

"From there, you will know what path to take." She pushed my hair back from my eyes, reaching forward to retrieve the small glass of cordial, which she held to my lips. "Drink."

It was sweet, as I had suspected. . .heady, too. . .rich with the taste of June strawberries, vivid and pure.

"The twilight shone upon our first meeting, Ringbearer. But not all twilight bodes the coming of darkness."

She was right, I knew. Sometimes twilight brings peace.

Finishing perhaps half the glass, I held up my hand, motioning the liquid away and nodding for her to drink. She looked at me gravely for a moment, then did so, finishing all save the dregs, and set the glass aside as we curled up in the window-seat, both of us gazing out at the star of Earendil in the heavens.

It was already beginning to brighten as the summer sky's glow faded to a soft darkness.


	2. Winter Twilight

He slept.

The little Ringbearer slept at last, and I cradled him close, wishing.

Wishing I could soothe his pain.

Wishing I could assuage my father's grief, a bitter thing without words that left an acrid taste in our mouths.

Wishing I could heal the rift between him and Estel. Our marriage had only partially salved the injury. . .in some ways, it was like an act of defiance. . .and though I knew my father was glad to see the restoration of his brother's line begin, to see me happily wed, to see that great darkness he had so long fought against vanquished, I could see the pain in his eyes.

And in Frodo's.

He had come so close to death yet again. Estel told us all in low murmuring conversation upon my arrival, taking Father aside with us and explaining how the little one had been delivered to his arms, scarcely more than a bundle of orc-rags, right hand bleeding profusely where a finger had been torn away, the jagged marks of some evil teeth still visible at the stub. He and his servant had both been exhausted to collapse, dehydrated and starved, their small bodies battered and bruised. . .but it was Frodo's that spoke of evil beyond expression, his tiny frame scarred by whip, chain, and spider-bite, his throat burned so badly that he could scarcely swallow. Despite a raging fever, he shivered so violently that his teeth chattered, forcing Estel and the others to wrap him in blankets and hold him close, to offer their own warmth in an effort to soothe him. And even now, months later, as the others grew hale and hearty again, he remained pale and quiet, easily fatigued, taking little nourishment. Would Father see him, Estel wondered, and determine whether aught could be done?

I cannot forget Father's face when he returned.

Truly, I have seen nothing like that since Mother's sailing. Nothing.

Frodo stirred in my arms, a soft moan escaping his lips, and I rocked him a little, comforting him as best as I could.

When I first saw him again, I understood.

Father had asked me to go in and see to the Ringbearer, leaving him to prepare medicines. . .fragrant oils and herbs to soothe, cordials and elixirs to help his appetite and ease his pain. Taking one of my favourite wraps - a silk shawl my mother had given me - I came to the room, knocking lightly and waiting for the soft response before entering his chambers.

White as midnight moonlight, pallid as any spectre.

As Mother had been.

He smiled a little for me, and rose, but the indentations along the comforter revealed that he had been in bed, resting. I came to him, gathering him up gingerly without a word, wrapping the shawl about him. Initial attempts at protest swiftly gave way: he folded against me, and cried himself to sleep in my arms. Many hours later, when my father returned with medicines and warm liquids, we reluctantly awakened him and began to coax slow sips down his throat: beef broth with barley and mushrooms, strained and sieved. . .chamomile tea with honey. . .miruvoir. . . .

It was only after we had fed him, and my father left to prepare more medicines, after I sponged him with warm water and wrapped him in a soft night-shirt and blankets, that he began to speak of things beyond imagining. . .things that chilled even my blood, even one who grew up hearing tales of the First Days from those who were there.

Darkness. Cities and villages awash in blood.

Living shadows. . .every shade of darkness, alive with some whispered malevolence.

And yet worst of all. . .none of these, but the last.

His memory of those days was a vivid haze of ash and shadow. Yet inside Orodruin, all haze had seemed to lift, as if all were suddenly clear to him: he could not speak of it to anyone, he insisted, and begged me not to hate him for it.

He had seen something else.

The Shire. . .one of the most beautiful days of late summer, just as it had been the year that his parents drowned.

His parents; his father smiling and good-natured, his mother all flurried dark curls and laughter.

Bilbo, chasing his favourite "nephew" through Bag End on a rainy day, playing a goblin in the Misty Mountains.

Rivendell, just as Bilbo had described it to him, just as he had awoken to it. . .intricate networks of peaceful paths and streams, just right for elven or hobbit feet. . . .

And Lorien.

And the fading of it all. . .a needless, preventable thing, if he would but have the courage to do what he should.

Yes, he had come to destroy the Ring; he still knew that. . .and yet. . .the Wise had not foreseen all; perhaps they had not foreseen this. He *could* wield it, and would. It was *his* and his alone. . . .

This he explained to me through intermittent tears, at times sobbing and at others strangely calm, always remaining curled fast against me, shivering. . .he always seemed chilled now, and expressed a firm conviction that once I had heard that, surely I would not think him worthy of honour, and would wish him to explain to Estel. When I merely held and rocked him, insisting otherwise, he seemed relieved, and at last cried himself back to sleep, as if the energy and water that could not be wasted on tears during long weeks and months of torment must at last be released.

He seemed no failure to me.

The Ring had known him too well by then. . .nothing more.

I felt relieved when he slept for several hours, awakening only at brief intervals to take sips of milk-possets and calming cordials. Yet I already knew that there was little else we could do.

And how could I speak of it to anyone, what the Ring had whispered to me? Why must your father suffer more than he has? You need not hurt him further. . .you could restore what he has lost. . . . Just imagine. . .no need to sail West, no need for separation. . .your mother could return, and your family could be together. . .always. . . . Your father could hold his grandchild, the firstborn of his only daughter and his foster-son, could see the fruit of what he has protected for so many centuries. . . . The little one has suffered enough, has he not? Would you force him to continue carrying that burden? He is hurting, and wishes to rest here. . .and he could, if you would but take the Ring, claim and wield it. . . . Your father's halls would no longer need protection, not with the Ring safely in your care. . .all the world could be as Imladris, save for the Shire and such similarly lovely places. . .and Vilya could be turned solely to its healing use. Your father could restore the little one to full health. . . . You and Estel could reign over a restored Arnor, and a reunited Arnor and Gondor. . .the world as it should be, as it would have been save for this evil. . . . Is it not wrong to know what good one could do and turn away, shunning the opportunity?

It would have been an easy enough matter.

After all, I helped my father tend him. It was my mother's chain: somehow it struck me as more suitable, and I searched through the little case left in her room until I found it. . .a fine, strong chain made long before my birth.

I believe that we already knew.

All of us: Mithrandir, Ada, myself. . .

Ada would be with him, at least. It was the only gift I had for them both, and for my mother.

The sleeping Ringbearer stirred a little, and I pulled my wrap more closely about him, unable to contain a smile despite my tears, stroking his curls.

My parents would look after him. I could not mend any broken heart, but perhaps with enough pieces together, there would be hope.

The sky continued to dim, passing on into evening. My father would be watching as Earendil's star rose, standing silently in some private contemplation before the window. I did not doubt that my mother, too, watched it from the West. And that, Frodo had explained, was what he sought every night during their journey. . .a glimpse of that star. That light, in the phial, was what Sam insisted kept his master alive, even when it was tucked away in some pocket or another.

Darkness or light, we are all of us bound to it, sure as the Firstborn are bound to Arda, the Secondborn to leave it.

Perhaps only in the twilight do we see clearly.

~THE END~


End file.
